


in the world full wrong (you're the thing that's right)

by Mizzy



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Beast, Anal Sex, Attempted Seduction, Canon What Canon, Daddy Issues, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, M/M, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Quentin Coldwater's Canonical Oral Fixation, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, slightly cracky, we write like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:00:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21874816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: Eliot is known for his first-year boys. The pattern is simple: make them obsessed with him, love them thoroughly, and then leave them staring after him pathetically for the rest of the semester. Simple.How he could know when he picked Quentin Coldwater as his next target that he'd picked entirely the wrong first-year boy to mess with? Maybe he was exactly the right one…[First season, No-Beast AU. We live in happy denial land chez-Mizzy.]
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 38
Kudos: 384





	in the world full wrong (you're the thing that's right)

**Author's Note:**

> Look we deserve nice things and Eliot and Quentin are NICE THINGS. Brief references included to some of Eliot's canonical issues, but there's no beast and maybe no Fillory and most importantly no one ever dies in this AU, because nope.

Eliot couldn't say exactly why he picked Quentin Coldwater as his target for that semester.

It might just have been how Quentin had endearingly tripped over his own feet. Or maybe it was the pleasant way Quentin's hair fell across his face. His ass might have also been a solid contribution to his decision: the only reason Eliot didn't class it as an ass to write home about was that the idea of writing home wearied him. Although if he _was_ to write to his mother, a lewd postcard extolling the virtue of Quentin Coldwater's well-rounded assets might be the non-physical equivalent of chucking a Molotov cocktail at the ol' homestead; Eliot filed the idea away for later, for if the inevitable urge to destroy something reared its ugly head again.

Margo glanced at him just once at his return to the Cottage after showing Quentin to the exam hall, before she returned to painting her nails, assuming a bored expression.

"What's his name?" she asked.

Eliot smiled to himself. "I don't know what you mean."

"Your face is doing that face."

"I can't help my face." Eliot considered sitting next to her, or knocking her brush with a tiny gesture because telekinesis was the worst gift for someone with his attention span and pettiness to have; he sauntered to the bar instead. "He's cute," Eliot announced, aiming for a casual tone.

"I'll reserve judgment," Margo said, loftily.

"Not my usual visual aesthetic, but—I could go for it."

"That's not a ringing endorsement from you. And I want something with apple."

Eliot paused, hand already half-outstretched to the apple brandy he'd been eyeing since that morning. He could refuse, but refusing Margo anything was difficult, and denying her for spite's sake would hurt him too. "As my lady requests."

He couldn't see much of her reflection in the Cottage window, but he could see a slash of crimson move slightly: Margo smiling at the title. "My lord is generous, as always," she said, effortlessly taking the glass he offered her a couple of minutes later, graceful despite her drying nails. "So go on, what's your planned victim's name?"

Eliot sat next to her, extending his legs elegantly before crossing them at the ankle. "Maybe I'm tired of my usual pattern."

"Is that you saying he's _not_ a high-strung nerd?"

Margo smirked into the cocktail as Eliot made a noncommittal noise that vindicated her assessment. Eliot had made them both a King's Waes Hail, an upgrade of the apple cider one would traditionally get while wassailing; King's Ginger Apple Brandy mixed with freshly squeezed lemon juice and an ounce of vermouth. He skipped the egg white he preferred to add because Margo didn't like raw eggs in her drinks, but he added plenty of ice and a lemon wheel garnish. When things were worth doing, they were worth doing right. It was entirely the wrong season for anything remotely related to wassailing, but Brakebills' seasons were skewed anyway.

"Well," Margo said, "I'm sure your new boy will have a _marvelous_ time. We need a toast. After your whirlwind love-him-and-leave-him seduction is over, may your current victim happily stare and sigh after you miserably for the rest of his miserable time at this fair school."

"Poor Quentin Coldwater," Eliot clinked his glass against Margo's. "To his inevitable misery."

Margo opened her mouth to echo the sentiment, but her pretty lips wrinkled mid-way. "Quentin _Coldwater_?" she said, instead. "With that name he already deserves pity, poor bastard."

Eliot nodded solemnly. Everyone knew about his obsession with first-year boys. And what happened to the ones he zoned in on. Eliot might chew them up and spit them out, but at least they left his bedroom with a limp and a goofy smile on their faces that took a week to fade.

Quentin Coldwater was a poor bastard, but he was going to get very lucky indeed.

* * *

At least, that was the plan.

It was all going pretty well and Quentin was responding almost as if Eliot had _scripted_ this seduction. Which he might well have, considering how many times he'd pulled off (heh) this particular maneuver. Things worked out enough in Eliot's favor that Quentin was still assigned to the Cottage, despite not having a deducible Discipline.

Eliot used his contacts to find out that Quentin's admission feat was constructing an animated castle of playing cards. Your first big working tended to be in the right _category_ as your Discipline _,_ even if it wasn't as cut-and-dried as Eliot's disastrous baptism of magic. Eliot didn't share that particular revelation with Quentin; it would be much too comforting to know he was in the correct place for his magic, and Eliot needed him a little off-kilter. All the better to be seen as a warm and solid option for the right kind of _comfort._

It was a Friday night, therefore it was a party night. Eliot found himself humming under his breath as he worked the bar. There was no real excuse for this party apart from the incoming weekend, but he and Margo never let a lack of a reason stop them from throwing a party.

Quentin wasn't downstairs yet, but that wasn't unusual. He was probably buried nose-deep in one of those books that Eliot liked to pretend he'd never read. Farmboy, closeted Eliot might have read them voraciously, clinging to Rupert Chatwin's glamorous transformation, pining for the Torrent that could fix anything and everything, including everything inside of Eliot that was cracked and torn—Eliot shoved those thoughts away, locking them back into the little mahogany trunk in his mind that had seven locks. He scattered the keys across his mindscape and straightened his posture, throwing his shoulders back. Eliot the magician was a wanton, debauched, epicene aesthete; the life of the goddamned party; the King of All He Fucking Surveyed. That was who he was now.

The next part of Eliot's plan was simple enough. Eliot would rescue Quentin from his fictional escape, gently coax him away from the pages, and tug him down to civilization for a couple of hours. Just long enough to remind of the beauty of life before providing some easy avenue of escape, so Quentin could scuttle back up to the safety of his nerd books and flannel sheets and whatever else Quentin Coldwater deemed safe enough for his little Fortress of Solitude. And damn, that was another moment of geekery loitering in Eliot's brain. He took a deep breath and let it go. It was plausible that his first-year obsessions would have some of their terms rub-off on him. Especially when his plans usually involved rubbing-off _on_ them. It was _fine._

His plan to rescue Quentin was exactly where it started to go wrong.

Eliot knocked on Quentin's door politely. Came in when Quentin called, "Come in." Closed the door when Quentin nodded at it emphatically. He opened his mouth to make his play to lure Quentin downstairs.

Quentin sighed loudly as he slid a paper tissue in between the pages of his book, because of _course_ Quentin had a box of Kleenex by his bed like it had never crossed his mind to maintain a social-pretense over his masturbatory habits (Eliot, of course, wasn't gauche; when he wasn't in the mood for clean-up spells, his Kleenex were safely ensconced in his bedside table.) Then Quentin thumped his book down on the floor and got to his feet.

Eliot snapped his mouth shut. Apparently, the suave entreaty he had scripted as the next step in his seduction wasn't going to be necessary. Well. That was fine. He reached his hand back to open the door, but Quentin was fast; his hand was already on Eliot's, and Quentin was pushing it aside, so Eliot's hand impacted the wall to the side of the door instead of grasping the handle. Eliot opened his mouth again, to ask what Quentin was doing.

The impulse to know the answer to that question quadrupled when Quentin surged up and kissed him, shoving their bodies together; Eliot's back hit Quentin's closed door solidly, and their mouths connected, hot and warm and goddamned _perfect._ And ahead of schedule, but oh, Eliot wasn't going to complain about that when Quentin's body was pressed alongside his, and Quentin's left hand closed around his wrist while his right hand slipped down and _very_ encouragingly squeezed Eliot's ass, jolting lightning through his body.

Quentin pulled away from the kiss, breathing hard, and Eliot stared at him, a little stunned, because this was off-pattern. And that kiss had been _so_ much better than Eliot was anticipating. He'd spent a lot of the last few weeks thinking about what kissing Quentin Coldwater would be like. He'd come to the conclusion it would be soft, affectionate, and clumsy. Eliot was so fucking wrong. This was the kind of situation where it was okay to be wrong, Eliot swiftly concluded, and reached forward to kiss Quentin again.

"Come on," Quentin said, and he sounded _resigned,_ and Eliot frowned deeply as Quentin stepped back and yanked his sweatshirt off. He struggled slightly in a very Quentin-ish manner, before succeeding and almost _angrily_ throwing it to one side as his hands reached for the bottom of the long-sleeved t-shirt he wore beneath. All his clothes looked soft; Eliot's fingers itched to touch them, as much as parts of him were getting particularly intrigued in the proceedings.

"Uh, come on _what?_ " Eliot said, slowly, almost dumbly staring as Quentin somehow _aggressively_ stripped, throwing his t-shirt to the corner of his room and roughly tugging at his belt.

Quentin looked at him, pure fire in his face, even as his voice sounded incredibly tired at the same time. "Everyone knows what you do, Eliot Waugh. You think this whole school hasn't told me how you go through first-year boys like hot knives in butter?"

"Quentin—" Eliot started, fully prepared to laugh it off as hyperbole, but Quentin's pants were off now, and his thighs did look impossibly decadent. What the hell did Quentin do with all his books, bench-press full bookcases?

"It's fine," Quentin said, waving a hand, "I'm okay with you seducing me. But I've got a ton of coursework and a Discipline to figure out and I just—" His hand waving continued, no precise spells being conjured with his very capable fingers (Eliot had spent a fair few days staring at Quentin's Poppers; he had a competence kink and Quentin ticked all the boxes in that particular regard); Quentin seemed to just be outlining Eliot's form in the air. "I'd just rather we fuck now and get it over with?"

Eliot stared. What the fuck? He should probably storm out, be offended by the assumption, and he resented the fuck out of the fact that Quentin's angry stripping was a massive turn-on, his ridiculously firm abs contrasted by the softest-looking stomach hair Eliot had seen for a while. Eliot's mouth was dry as he imagined running his fingers through it and, as Quentin pulled down his boxers too, Quentin was hard, and beautiful with it.

A brief ripple of rage ran through Eliot. Quentin Coldwater was a freaking _disaster_ human who was wrecking Eliot's plans and was probably trying to fucking double-blind him into abandoning his plans. Quentin probably thought Eliot _would_ run screaming from his bedroom.

Two could play at that game, Eliot thought viciously, and starting pulling off his own clothes, enjoying the small hint of concern in Quentin's eyes. Fine. This was just _fine._ Quentin thought he had Eliot figured out? Ha. Quentin had visibly shelved his concern aside by the time Eliot was shirtless; he was casually pulling his socks off, still erect and unabashed by his arousal, smirking at Eliot like he was sure Eliot was going to turn tail and run.

It was a dare, and Eliot Waugh would _never_ turn down such a fucking blatant dare.

Eliot took down his underpants and pants in one motion, arched an eyebrow, and tackled Quentin to the bed. Quentin responded instantly, kissing him hungrily. Quentin obviously wanted him. He wasn't saying _no_ to Eliot's plan, just the timetable of it.

And this was the plan, even on a truncated timeline. Seduce Quentin. Drive him crazy. Then move on to the next obsession. Quentin might have wrecked his script, but Eliot could still wreck him. He was going to show Quentin the best damned time of his fucking _life._

* * *

There was a short period of time where Eliot was sure everything was going right after all.

Eliot brought more than his A-game to their personal party of two. Beyond that, Eliot brought every fucking thing he'd excelled at under the sun to fucking Quentin Coldwater.

Eliot was feverish, possessed by the idea of it, of showing Quentin the best time he'd ever had; he meant every word of that, and acted accordingly. He fucking _worshipped_ Quentin with his body and with a thousand kisses, every kind of kiss Eliot had ever known and plenty more besides. Eliot had experience and he wielded it against Quentin ruthlessly. Quentin had no hope but to be hit by the full-force of Eliot's sex tsunami.

Quentin was obviously not as skilled in the arena of copulation as Eliot was, but that was okay; he was earnest, and his body was strong, and he laughed, often and loud, which was the best kind of fucking in Eliot's opinion. Sex couldn't be serious with the kind of bodily functions it entailed and the faces one pulled in the middle of truly excellent orgasms. The low gasps Quentin made when Eliot breached him were sublime, as were the way his fingertips dug in as he outright and loudly _begged_ Eliot for more, no hint of shame in his pleading. Some of Eliot's first-year boys shied away from the full menu—Eliot didn't mind because frottage was an art he took as seriously as any other—but Quentin only swallowed nervously _once_ as the full size of Eliot's endowment sank in, before spreading his legs and angling that same kind of brave, brazen, _daring_ expression at Eliot.

Quentin was brave. Probably braver than Eliot would ever be. Eliot found himself gentling his fingers against Quentin's face as he entered him, whispering soft endearments in Quentin's ear, quiet phrases that Quentin seemed to devour as hungrily as he claimed Eliot's lips. _You're doing so well for me,_ Eliot crooned, and Quentin's head fell back and his eyes rolled back and he mouthed wetly at his forearm until Eliot was fully-seated, and then he just stared at Eliot like Eliot was absolutely fucking rocking his world.

That had been it for Eliot's fractured self-control. All of Eliot's smoothest techniques fled his head as he focused on fucking Quentin, desperate to get into his tight heat. Quentin urged him with those dark, focused eyes and Eliot couldn't look away; Quentin's fingers were scrabbling into his back, hard enough to leave scratches Eliot would feel for weeks, and his ankles were digging into Eliot's ass, urging him to keep going.

It was barely the start of it. Eliot wasn't going to _wham, bam, and thank you magician_ Quentin, no sirree. Quentin Coldwater was going to be fucking _romanced_ for this one night onboard the Eliot Waugh express train. And Eliot was itching to know if Quentin came the same way every time, somehow sweet and earnest and _filthy,_ all at once. Like Quentin was sharing a secret punchline to a joke no one but Eliot and he would ever understand.

Quentin, Eliot decided, as he rimmed the hell out of him for an hour until Quentin was mewling and clawing his fingers into his bedsheets and tears were leaking out of the corner of his eyes, was never, _ever_ going to forget this night.

* * *

Something, and Eliot wasn't sure what, _had_ gone wrong.

Desperately wrong.

Eliot had never felt so off-kilter in his entire life.

It all _seemed_ to be going exactly to plan. He left Quentin as a human noodle, hugging his bedsheets and looking pleasantly fucked-out. Eliot politely stayed until early morning before sneaking back to his room when everyone was safely in their beds—he was never a fan of the walk of shame—and he set his alarm for an early hour as he crawled under his quilt for a short nap, because rocking Quentin's world had been more exercise than Eliot normally got in an entire month.

Eliot wanted to be up early; part of the fun of seducing his first-year boys was the way they would shuffle and blush the morning after.

Eliot woke up to his alarm, rapidly ran through his morning ablutions, dressed impeccably and sauntered down to the kitchen, starting to prepare the ritual Saturday-morning breakfast sandwiches which were a reward for the rare handful of physical kids who managed coherency after one of their parties.

Margo was the first to come down, looping her arms around his waist and kissing him noisily. "You're either terrible or incredible," she said, pulling a queasy face at the grease spitting in the pan as Eliot placidly fried bacon. It was the good stuff; thick with fat, Maple-cured and rich.

"I strive to be both, darling," Eliot murmured, smiling at her. "You in the mood for sausage?"

Margo grinned. "Always," she beamed, and went to the fridge to pull some out.

Eliot cooked more food than he normally might, mostly because the kitchen had the best sight of the stairs so he could get away with his casual surveillance, but also because Quentin had engaged him so thoroughly that he had no _idea_ what the survival rate of this particular party might be. He was rewarded when Quentin was the next to surface.

Quentin smiled at Eliot as he reached the bottom of the stairs and Eliot was ready to be smug about it, until he noticed Quentin's attention wasn't exactly _on_ him—more on the plates of food spread over the counter.

"Good morning, starshine," Margo greeted Quentin, raising an elegant hand at him. "Eliot makes the _best_ survivor sandwiches." She eyeballed him. "Not sure you count as a Cottage party survivor if you didn't actually join the party, though."

"Oh, I was around," Quentin said, "right, Eliot? You saw me." Quentin, dammit, _winked_ at Eliot, because it turned out he was a cheeky little shit.

"Uh," Eliot said, eloquently. Dammit. Eliot was suave. Smooth. Not an awkward mess. "Yes." He swallowed back the awkward cough he wanted to make and fought to keep his tone distinctly neutral. "Quentin definitely partied."

"Then help yourself," Margo gestured at the food.

"Great, I have so much revision to do today, this is gonna help a _shit_ ton, thanks!" Quentin grabbed a sandwich, and delivered his thanks to Eliot by looking him _directly in the eye_. No blushing. No shuffling. No stuttering. No hint that they'd just spent several, marathon hours locked in sweaty, attractive, glorious coitus. What the fuck?

Quentin looked tired, but he _always_ looked tired. Eliot glared surreptitiously after him as Quentin headed for the door, only mildly appeased by the slightest hint of a limp as Quentin left the Cottage. Quentin did quirk a brief smile at Eliot as he closed the door.

When Eliot turned back to the table, stunned by Quentin not being more visibly affected by their night together, Margo leaned in knowingly.

"You'll get to fuck him soon, you're definitely getting under his skin," Margo said, in a low voice that was probably meant to be reassuring. "Then you can fuck him and get him out of your system."

"Yes," Eliot said, frowning. "That's the plan. Make him horribly obsessed with me until the end of time. This plan is absolutely on course."

* * *

It was the plan. It was definitely the plan. And truncated timeline aside, Eliot had done it right. Welcomed Quentin into his circle, found a space for him to call home, before delivering him hours of unspeakable pleasure. He knew he had. Quentin had left semi-circles down Eliot's back that had bruised into the prettiest constellations.

And yet...Quentin was just carrying on as normal. Went to classes. Came to Cottage parties for a couple of hours before scurrying off to commune with his books. Did his homework. Came to every single Welters practice when Margo cajoled him to.

But he didn't stare at Eliot the way all his previous conquests still did. Quentin's smiles didn't wobble slightly when Eliot smiled at him. Quentin, for all intents and purposes, was acting as if their night together had _never fucking happened._

What the fuck?

Eliot had never felt so distinctly gutted in his whole life. There was something wrong with Quentin, obviously something seriously wrong. If Eliot could figure out what it was, life could go back to making sense again.

He might have, perhaps, _maybe,_ been _slightly_ brooding about it. Ish.

Sort of.

A bit.

Maybe Quentin was just pretending around Eliot? It was just an errant thought, but as soon as it's there, it nestled in, a splinter that won't stop irritating him. He had to know if Quentin was a mess when Eliot _wasn't_ obviously looking. Eliot gritted his teeth and...if, perhaps, his path to academic pursuits happened to idle near Quentin's, well. That was just a coincidence. Definitely just a happenstance. Eliot had deliberately not scoped out Quentin's favorite table to study at and picked a desk for himself where he could see Quentin through the stacks as he worked.

Quentin did have very nice fingers. Eliot hadn't appreciated that nearly enough in the time they had together. There was something pleasant about the gentle way Quentin handled every single book he looked at, like they were all special and deserving of good treatment. That's why Eliot had picked Quentin to help him on that book-rescue mission, after all. The books in Brakebills library sometimes _knew_ when you didn't give a shit about them; the number of times Eliot would have to persuade someone else to find a text for him, because they would sense Eliot's reluctance to read them and hide on _purpose_ because magic was a bitch like that.

The book Eliot was using at the moment seemed to sense it was being used as a shield for covert staring; it felt heavier in his hands the longer he was there. He could feel it drooping in his grip. He sighed at Quentin's stamina in every department, including how long he could study without needing a break.

Eliot sneaked another glance at Quentin, enjoying the way Quentin had to keep pushing back his hair at it fell in his eyes. Eliot was ready to garrote the next asshole he overheard trying to tell Quentin to cut it short; Quentin would cut his hair short over Eliot Waugh's dead and desiccating _corpse._ The book Eliot was holding actually _squeaked_ and Eliot glanced down at it in embarrassment; he'd been gripping it too tightly, apparently. Eliot's eyes widened and he scurried into the stacks to put it back and find something better for surveillance purposes. Something large and light that wasn't opposed to a little bit of gripping, here and there. Just like Quentin hadn't been opposed to a little bit of hair tugging, now and again. Eliot's eyes glazed over thinking about it. Why couldn't he stop thinking about it? It was ridiculous. That was the routine with all of Eliot's first-year boys. Find one, fixate, and use one night to fuck them out of his system.

Eliot sighed and prodded at a volume of Fournier's Transformations. He was about to pull it out and see if it suited what he was looking for when a very familiar voice stopped him, mid-motion.

"Do you have to?"

Eliot froze, hand outstretched, but turned his head to see Quentin standing there in the narrow gap between the shelves, looking pretty pissed off. "Choose Fournier? No. I suppose it's an uncouth pick. Some of his directions _are_ rather rough."

"You know what I mean," Quentin's voice was impatient and his eyes were dark. "I can't study with you constantly _staring_ at me like that."

"I wasn't _staring—_ " Eliot lied. He rolled his eyes. "I occasionally glanced in your direction, true, but—we're housemates, surely I'm allowed to _look_."

"Not like _that,_ " Quentin gestured with a hand and glared at Eliot, stepping closer. "If I blow you in the stacks will you leave me alone long enough so I can fucking _concentrate?_ "

"Uh," Eliot said, and apparently in the world of Quentin Coldwater, that was enough verbal consent, because Eliot found himself being pushed into the books, the angles of that Fournier text digging into his shoulder. Quentin was furiously working open Eliot's pants and dropping to his knees and holy _shit,_ Quentin's talented mouth was around Eliot's dick, and Eliot was seeing _stars._ Quentin's fingers dug into Eliot's hips and he didn't let up, not for a single second, and he was looking up at Eliot as he sucked, a question in his eyes that disappeared when Eliot frantically nodded. It didn't matter what Quentin was asking: the answer was yes.

Eliot had stamina. Eliot could last like a trooper. He had control. He was a master of delayed gratification. Eliot came down Quentin's throat like a steam train in under a minute.

Eliot gaped down at him in confusion while Quentin smirked like he'd just won a prize or something. Quentin rose gracefully to full height and even tripping over his own feet as he stepped unsteadily back toward his books didn't kill his overly-satisfied grin. Eliot was horrified and promptly rallied, grabbing Quentin by the shoulders, pushing him against the opposite set of shelves and kissing him furiously as he reached inside Quentin's jeans to ruthlessly jerk him off. He grinned in satisfaction as Quentin came apart in as many seconds as Quentin had taken to ruin him; Quentin made soft stuttering noises in Eliot's ear as he came in Eliot's hand.

" _Now_ are you gonna leave me alone so I can study?" Quentin's eyes were wild as he watched Eliot efficiently wiped Quentin's come from his hand into a paper tissue before pushing the tissue into one of Quentin's pockets. Quentin rolled his eyes but didn't look too annoyed.

"No," a disgruntled voice interrupted, before Eliot could respond; Eliot raised his eyes to see the Brakebills head librarian glaring at them, arms crossed over his chest. " _Now_ is when I mark _both_ of your library profiles. You're banned. Take it outside and don't even _think_ of stepping back inside this library until next semester." He sniffed. "At the _earliest_."

Quentin opened his mouth to protest.

" _Now,_ " the head librarian yelped.

* * *

Eliot was still laughing but Quentin's face was red as he stomped along the path.

"C'mon, lighten up," Eliot said. "How often do _you_ get banned from public buildings for frisky behavior?"

"It'll be _on my record,_ " Quentin hissed. "And I have so much homework. Do you know how many more books I need?"

"Seventeen," Eliot said, calmly shrugging as Quentin startled. "We have seven of the ones you definitely need back at the Cottage. Margo can get you the other eight; she owes me. You'd be stuck for the Isserlis essays on moon phase affecting Poppers, _if_ we didn't already have the Cottage library."

Quentin stopped walking abruptly to stare at Eliot. "We have a library back at the Cottage?"

"All the past papers by past Physical students," Eliot nodded. "We normally don't tell the First Years until we're sure they know Brakebills' plagiarism rules are no joke. But normally First Years don't spend a hundred hours a week in the library like you do."

"Like I _did_ ," Quentin corrected. "Until you got me banned."

"Just for a month," Eliot said. "And it takes two to—"

"Tango?"

"I was going to say fornicate, but sure, tango is fine."

Quentin glared at Eliot a moment longer but then resumed stomping back to the Cottage. "Any chance we can keep this hidden from the other physical kids, at least?"

"God, no," Eliot said, "the Queen of Gossip's probably already passing it around."

"Who?"

"Margo."

"I'm so doomed," Quentin sighed and shoulders sagged. Eliot wrapped his arm around them, quietly thrilling at the way Quentin leaned in closer. Eliot exhaled slowly. He was supposed to be wrecking Quentin, but somehow, Quentin had been the one to hit _him_ like a two-by-four.

" _We_ are," Eliot said, slowly.

Quentin's eyes quirked up to meet his, cautiously optimistic. "We?" he repeated, so quietly Eliot barely heard him. "But—everyone knows what you do with first-years. You—you just—you're looking for a good time, that's it. Some of them talked to me when I got here, when they realized I—I was your next target."

Eliot didn't look at him, but he tightened his hand on Quentin's forearm. "I've been known to do that," he said, keeping his voice light. "But you slept with me anyway that first time, knowing."

"Yes," Quentin said.

Eliot thought of Quentin's bravery that first night, the confrontational stripping. The way Quentin had just opened himself to him, whole-hearted and earnest and no restraint, no regrets. He'd gone in _knowing_ what normally happened. "It was an old rule," Eliot said. He could feel his heart skittering awkwardly in his chest, demanding to know what he was thinking, what he was trying to say. "But hopefully I've just illustrated with you that I'd break a rule or two." He smiled slyly at Quentin. "For the right cause."

"And I'm the right cause?" Quentin arched a skeptical eyebrow.

Eliot stopped walking so he could turn Quentin to face him, right there in public, Brakebills' inappropriate sunshine blazing down on them. Behind Quentin, the quad was full of magicians showing off, spilling their Disciplines freely into the air. Apples were floating in circles, psychics were chanting, the Illusion kids were spinning castles in the air, the Nature kids were coaxing saplings to grow quicker, faster. Magic was in the air, all around them, and Quentin believed in magic more than anyone Eliot had ever met—and Quentin was looking only at Eliot.

"You are," Eliot said, simply, and even though he was scared, he kissed Quentin, trying a little of that earnestness out that Quentin wore so well.

Quentin smiled into the kiss. "Okay," he said, his voice squeaking; he was nervous too. Eliot's hands were sweaty. Romance, Eliot realized, was a little bit messy.

"Can we get back to the Cottage?" Quentin said. "My pants are still a bit, well. Gross."

"I could probably help you get them off," Eliot said, trying to sound casual and failing, because Quentin had slipped his hand into Eliot's, and it was nice, even though Quentin's hand was a little damp too. Eliot might be scared, but so was Quentin; it was nice to feel so _together_ in something, even if neither of them apparently ever really had it together.

"Maybe you can help get me off," Quentin muttered and then grinned at Eliot. Eliot grinned back.

When they opened the front door of the Cottage, it was to a full house and a rowdy cheer as they entered, Margo leading the hollering with a glass held high. Eliot shook his head ruefully and kept close to Quentin, shadowing him closely as he shepherded a blushing Quentin up the stairs and away from Margo's knowing grin.

He hadn't predicted Quentin, that was true, but he _had_ predicted Margo's almost spooky ability to spread gossip faster than the speed of light, and it was nice to be right about _something,_ even when the thing he was wrong about was as unexpectedly delightful as Quentin Coldwater.


End file.
